Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,59

brochures to the floor. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t stay in Belgium...one brochure caught her attention. It was for the ferry that left the coast of Normandy for the fabled White Cliffs of Dover.

She would go to England, she decided dully.

But it was three days before she could even leave the room.

CHAPTER NINE

BY THE TIME SLOAN returned to Gettysburg she had done a fair job of pulling herself together—or at least an acceptable job of creating a smooth shell to hide behind and a serene mask with which to face the world.

The mask was brittle, and beneath it she was a desolate and miserable wreck, but no one would ever know. To complicate matters, she had no idea what Wesley’s next move might be, but since he had adamantly decreed that there would be no divorce, she was nervously determined to keep up appearances on the slender line of hope that something could be worked out.

She hadn’t stayed in Belgium. After finally managing to emerge from her room, she found the memories of Brussels too haunting and beautifully ironic to bear. Besides, though of French descent, she had none of Wesley’s gift for the language, and Flemish eluded her completely. She had moved across the English channel to Dover and on to London where she had forced herself to sightsee like crazy. For hours she had gazed upon the ancient tombs and history of Westminster Abbey, toured the endless halls of the Victoria and Albert, and strolled the shops of Piccadilly Circus and Carnaby Street. Her greatest pleasure, however, had been a day spent in the London Dungeon—a wax museum specializing in the rather barbaric practices of the various tribes and nationalities that combined to make the English people. With a spite she wasn’t quite able to contain, she thought how nice it would be to contain Wes in a gibbet, boil him in oil, or set him to the rack. Her pleasure didn’t last, however, because she knew, she had no desire for real vengeance, only a yearning to go back in time and undo all the wrong between them and recapture the wonderfully golden moments when they had both been truly in love.

Nothing could be undone. She had to brace herself for the dubious future, steady frayed nerves that threatened to snap with the pressure of wondering when she would suddenly look up and discover Wes had returned.

With just the right amount of dejection Sloan informed Florence that Wes had been held up on business. She breathed a little more easily when Florence accepted her explanation without doubt—apparently Wes traveled frequently on business.

She didn’t need to feign her happiness at her reunion with her children, nor stifle the delight that the children’s pleasure over their foreign gifts gave her.

It was hardest to see Cassie. She didn’t dare give away the slightest trauma—if Cassie were to discover that her trip of concern to her sister’s house had been the catalyst to the destruction of her marriage, she would never forgive herself. Still, it was very, very difficult to listen to Cassie’s sympathy for “poor Wes,” working two weeks after his wedding away from his bride...

Sloan was extremely grateful for her own work, and she plunged her heart and soul into her classes. But as the weeks began to pass and no word was heard from Wes, her resolve to remain cool and collected despite the inner battle played beneath her shell became increasingly arduous. She kept up a strained smile when asked about Wes, always sighing and saying that he had called and was regrettably still delayed.

Finals for the students came and went, sending Sloan into mental chaos. She would have plenty of time to spend with the kids, but Florence had the house in complete control, and since the children loved their summer day school, she would have hours of nothing to do but chew her nails and worry and give vent to the tears that always lurked behind her eyes when no one was looking.

She was looking at the mess that was her attempted cleanup of her desk on the last day of classes, when an idea that had been vaguely forming at the back of her head rose to the surface with vehemence. Leaving papers and folders to flutter in her wake, she raced into Jim’s office.

“Jim!” she exclaimed, interrupting his study of a thesis.

“Sloan!” he imitated her urgent tone with a chuckle. “What is it?”

Curling into the chair that faced his desk—an identical arrangement